I don’t know if you’re even going to read this, but if you are, bear with me here—this is a long one.

From what I’ve heard, being a mother is hard. You have to take care of this screaming thing for 18 years before it’s acceptable for you to let it live on its own. And even then, you miss them. Even then, you want to protect them. But you let them go and hope that, amid all the yelling and tears and laughter, they had listened to every lesson you tried to impart to them.

From what I’ve heard, being a mother is worth it. You get to watch these pieces of you grow up and into their own person and make their own choices. Good choices that make you proud. Bad choices that make you ache inside. Choices that you wished you’d made at their age and choices you’re glad you never had to consider. And at the end of the day, when you think of them before you go to sleep, you know that it’s all been worth it.

But this is just what I’ve heard. I’m not a mother and I haven’t ever had a good relationship with my own. You know that. All the same, I think you’d agree with me about all that stuff anyways.

I’ve tried saying this to your face a few times, but you usually just brush me off because you’re trying to be humble because you don’t believe what I’m saying is true. So I’m writing this down because you know I’m a writer and writers always write what they know. And this is what I know to be true.

Being a wife, a mother of two, and a daughter of an aging parent all at the same time was hard. I could see it in your eyes when you had to deal with your fighting daughters, two of my best friends. The sighs you’d make as you cooked the best Italian meals in all of Ridgewood. Or when the annoyed phrases of your first language slipped into your conversations. Family is always worth the hard work and I know you’d never trade them for anything (Who would? Your family is spectacular), but it's hard work nonetheless.

Yet on top of all these responsibilities, you made time for my sister and me. You treated us like family, many times better than how our actual relatives treated us. And it was amazing. You scolded me when I picked on my sister and made sure we always ate everything on our plates. You helped us with homework when you opened your home to us after school, even when you knew all four of us girls were itching to play games instead. I realize now that that must have taken a saint’s patience.

You let me follow you around and do chores like watering the plants or washing some dishes because you knew I just wanted an excuse to tell you all the dumb jokes and stories that I’d already told your kids. You never made me feel like something was wrong with me. And I know some other parents thought there was. I was too serious, too rude, too precocious, too introverted. But your daughters didn’t care what people said and that was enough for you not to care as well. I am so very grateful for your big hearts.

Do you even remember how I’d always end up at your place for dinner on Fridays because I hated being at home? Or how when my parents fought on her 16th birthday, my sister went to your place because that felt like more of a home? Do you remember when I was in 8^th grade and used to stop off at your place to wait for my friends and you always made sure I ate breakfast? Or all the times you told my own mother to lay off me because I deserved to just be a kid sometimes? What about those times in high school when you used to give me a ride home when you were headed my way, and you’d shut down all my protests with one exasperated look? You probably don’t remember because you were just doing what you thought was the right thing.

But I do. My sister does. We remember wishing our own mother was just like you. Or wishing that we never had to leave your house and go home to our own which was only ever full of yelling. I remember the first and only time I was ever jealous of my best friend was because I wanted to be your daughter too. And I was angry for so long, because why couldn’t I be that lucky? I’m not that angry kid anymore, though. I don’t need to be jealous or upset that I wasn’t as lucky as my best friend.

Because I was lucky. You may not be my real mother, but you’ve always been a realmom to me. And I am so ridiculously lucky to even have that. So ridiculously lucky that when your daughter brought home that toothpick of a girl with messy brown hair, you looked at her and saw someone worth taking under your wing.

You picked me up when I doubted myself. You protected me when I didn’t think I deserved it. You supported me when I had to make difficult choices. You advised me when I needed it. You loved me even though I had nothing to offer you other than my own admiration and loyalty.

And one day I’ll be able to repay your family for every kindness, for every meal, for every smile and pat on the back. One day, I promise. I know I’m not your daughter, but I hope I’ll make you just as proud.

Love Always,

Jess

P.S. Also thank you for always ganging up on your daughter with me. And then stopping her from killing me afterwards. Those were good times!